Chapter 49: Crossfire Hooks!
The Bowl Hands came through the cookfires without hurrying.
Their iron head cages hid everything above the jaw. Ash had pasted itself to their black aprons. Bronze tag chains wrapped both wrists, and each blunt hook hung low enough to scrape sparks off the furnace brick.
CLINK!
CLINK!
The sound moved with them.
The people around the fires drew back until only Kael, Vaela, Orrek, and Renn remained between the four figures and the ash drain.
Renn stood at the drain mouth with the torn count strap clenched in one hand.
"Twelve through," he said. "Thirteen. Old Noll is slow."
"Keep counting," Kael said.
"I am."
The first Bowl Hand raised its hook.
The hook was built for taking, not killing. Its point was dull. Its inner curve had leather teeth screwed into it. A chain ran from the wrist of the figure to a winch housing bolted against the far pillar.
Kael saw the line.
The hook did not fly at him.
It bent toward Renn.
Kael crossed the floor before the leather teeth could close on the count strap. He caught the chain with both hands and planted his feet.
CLANG!
The Bowl Hand leaned back.
Above them, the pillar housing woke. Rusted counterweights dropped inside it one at a time. The chain jerked. Each falling block added more pull to Kael’s arms.
Ordinary iron did it: a winch dropped the blocks from height.
His shoulders screamed anyway.
Renn stared at the chain cutting into Kael’s palms.
"Move back," Kael said.
"Thirteen through."
"Move."
Renn stepped into the drain just as a second hook swept low for his ankle. Orrek’s chain cracked around the hook shaft and dragged it wide.
The second Bowl Hand turned its cage head toward him.
"What can I hit?" Orrek asked.
Vaela slid to his left, eyes on the oily aprons.
"Knees. Elbows. The winch housings. Leave the tag chains alone until they stop moving."
Orrek grinned. "Now we are speaking plainly."
He went low.
THUD!
His shoulder drove into the second Bowl Hand’s knee. The apron stiffened on impact, but the joint behind it bent sideways. Vaela’s crescent slipped under the apron seam and cut the leather pull-cord behind the knee.
SNAP!
The figure lurched.
Orrek’s chain came down on the exposed elbow.
CRACK!
The hook arm hung wrong.
The first Bowl Hand kept pulling. Another counterweight dropped in the pillar.
Kael felt the chain bite deeper.
The third figure opened its apron. Thin red needles shot from a rack against its ribs, carried by the snap of a compressed bone tube.
Vaela ducked. One needle grazed her cheek. Another buried in the drain wall inches from Miro’s hand.
Kael tore the first chain sideways.
The winch housing groaned.
The figure on the other end did not release. It braced both boots against the brick, trying to hold him until the counterweights could do the work.
That choice gave Kael the line he needed.
He pulled once.
The Bowl Hand left the ground.
Its cage head struck the pillar housing.
BANG!
The rusted bolts sprang free. One counterweight fell through the broken side and crushed the figure’s foot.
CRUNCH!
The Bowl Hand made no clean sound. Its jaw opened inside the cage. Black water ran from beneath the iron bars.
The black water reached the ash and moved on its own.
It crawled in thin threads toward the cracks between furnace bricks. The first thread touched a dropped bronze tag and hissed. The tag’s stamped face softened, then folded into the mud.
Vaela saw it.
"Do not touch the water."
Orrek had already lifted his chain to strike the fallen Bowl Hand again. He stopped with the links hanging over the caged head.
"It is bleeding wrong."
"It has an air tube somewhere under that cage," Vaela said. "A pipe-lung below it is pumping the breath."
The broken figure clawed at the cage bars. Its fingers were human. The nails had been cut down to stumps. A hoarse sound leaked through the iron.
"Cut... neck..."
Orrek’s face hardened.
The figure’s wrist tags began to pull toward the spreading black water. One by one, the bronze pieces dragged across the ash as if a buried mouth had found their scent.
Kael could not spare the time to study it. The counterweight chain was still in his hands. The third Bowl Hand had its needle rack open. The fourth carried the small cage frame toward the drain.
But he saw Orrek make a choice.
The choice carried neither mercy nor softness.
Orrek stomped the tags loose from the fallen man’s wrist, then hooked his chain through the back bars of the iron cage.
"Hold still," he said.
"Cannot."
"Then be unlucky."
He yanked.
The rear bars tore open with a scream of metal. A length of black tendon came with them, writhing and wet. Vaela cut it before it could crawl back into the man’s neck.
SNAP!
The water threads went dull.
The fallen Bowl Hand collapsed face-first into the ash. This time it breathed.
Once.
Twice.
The cage still hid its eyes, but the hand against the ground stopped clawing.
Orrek looked at the man for half a breath, then turned when the fourth figure raised the cage frame over Tavin.
Whatever had been inside the taking gear could wait. A child could not.
The fourth figure moved around the fight toward the child, carrying a short cage frame under one arm, just wide enough to lock over small shoulders.
Della saw it.
"Tavin!"
The boy had reached the drain lip. The cage frame came down toward him.
Kael had no room to reach him cleanly. Vaela was pinned behind the needle rack. Orrek was still wrestling the second Bowl Hand off his chain.
The need tore through Kael’s body like a hooked cable.
ALLOCATE!
====================================================================
[ SOVEREIGN ROOT INTERFACE OVERLAY ]
--------------------------------------------------------------------
≫ HOSTILE PRESSURE DETECTED: Bowl-Hand Cage Seizure
≫ EXISTENTIAL SHARDS EXTRACTED: +2
--------------------------------------------------------------------
≫ MANUAL ALLOCATION COMMAND RECEIVED
▶ SHARD ALLOCATION REGISTERED: +2 TOTAL
▶ ALLOCATION DISTRIBUTION:
- Core Mass Density -> 18
- Metaphysical Resistance -> 16
[!] SYSTEM NOTICE: Body density and hostile-pressure resistance reinforced under active cage seizure.
====================================================================
The scar in Kael’s palm flared as the cage frame crossed its line of sight.
He did not disappear.
He hit the frame hard enough to turn it in the Bowl Hand’s grip.
THOOM!
The iron ribs bent around his forearm. The cage figure tried to pull back. Kael caught the front bar, set his shoulder under it, and drove forward.
The frame folded into the Bowl Hand’s chest.
Its cage head slammed backward against the cookfire pillar. The iron bars split. Kael saw a human face inside for a fraction of a breath: shaved scalp, burst lip, eyes full of panic.
The face belonged to a trapped man.
A man who had been fitted into someone else’s taking gear.
The man reached for the latch at his own throat.
The third Bowl Hand fired another needle rack toward Della.
Kael had to turn away.
Vaela got there first. She kicked the rack aside. The needles burst into the cookfire stones instead of the drain.
CHAK! CHAK! CHAK!
The white-eyed bowl keeper shouted from behind the nearest pot.
"They let the hook-singers name them!"
Pell’s voice answered from somewhere beyond the crowd.
"They broke our tools."
The woman faced the copper-masked man. Her ladle trembled in both hands.
"Your hook-singers called an old man before any Bowl Hand walked. They dropped the cage first."
The copper mask did not move.
"Soot-Hand work."
"At my fire."
People began to look from the callers to the winch housing, then to the blue cloth stuck in the first Soot-Hand hook. They had watched Pell’s cart come. They had watched the callers sing. Now they watched the Bowl Hands trying to put a child in a cage.
Fear did not turn them into heroes.
It did turn their hands away from the hooks in their sleeves.
The first Bowl Hand dragged itself from the broken counterweight. The caged head turned toward Pell’s voice.
Kael saw the tag chain wrapped around its wrist. One tag bore a fresh smear of black wax. The same wax sealed the shell carried by the black-aproned signal man.
He ripped the tag free and held it up.
"They were sent."
Pell stepped into sight near the far fire. His clean robe had gathered ash at the hem. The bronze bowl at his throat no longer shone.
"A caller brings noise," he said. "The bowl protects itself."
"You brought them," Vaela said.
"You have no proof."
Kael threw the wax tag at Pell’s feet.
It landed black side up.
The bowl keeper saw it. So did the copper-masked man. The red cloth around the caller’s throat had been sealed with the same wax.
Pell looked at the tag for too long.
For hungry people who had watched their pots used as a wall for cages, it was proof enough.
The copper-masked man took one step away from Pell.
The white-eyed woman raised her ladle.
"Take your hands out of my bowl."
Pell’s mouth tightened.
The Bowl Hands stopped moving.
The people around the fires had not forgiven Kael, and the cookfire floor was no safer than before. They stopped only because Pell’s hooks were likely to turn toward them next.
Kael backed toward the drain without looking away from him.
Renn’s voice rose from below.
"Fourteen through."
Pell’s eyes found the count strap in Renn’s hand.
Then they found Kael.
A bell rang once over the cookfires.
The note did not come from the public bell.
A smaller iron note from the far end of the basin.
Pell smiled again, but there was no warmth in it.
"You broke the easy hands," he said. "Now see what carries the heavy ones."